


Dreams

by The_Trashiest_Bisexual



Category: Dead Poets Society (1989)
Genre: Depression, Dreams, Grief/Mourning, Loss, M/M, Mentions of Suicide, More introspection yay, Nightmares, Past Suicide, another sad fic, here we go boys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-22
Updated: 2019-11-22
Packaged: 2021-02-18 03:34:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 960
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21521182
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Trashiest_Bisexual/pseuds/The_Trashiest_Bisexual
Summary: At night, he dreamed of many things.Most times it was love: in the form of eyes that would gaze into his own and the hand that would hold his.Of course, the stains of red that blood leaves cannot always be washed away. Sometimes they permanently taint what was once pure.And so most nights, those dreams were never quite the same.
Relationships: Todd Anderson/Neil Perry
Comments: 8
Kudos: 29





	Dreams

**Author's Note:**

> This fic makes reference to a previous suicide, and has a brief description of the event as recounted by another person. There are also mentions to death and blood. Just a heads up for anyone who may finds those topics uncomfortable.
> 
> Anyway, hope you enjoy!

At night, he dreamed of many things.

He dreamed about nails gliding along his skin. It was never painful, not when the touch was feather-soft and light in a way that almost tickled. It was gentle and playful, and it took him by surprise every time he was intently reading a book or buried in homework at his desk.

It was never painful.

He dreamed of eyes that gazed into his own. Eyes that weren’t invasive. Eyes that always made him feel vulnerable in the right way. Eyes that always held love and compassion whenever they looked his way, so much so that he’d find himself wondering if anyone else noticed the way those eyes only really had that spark of life in them when they stared into his own.

He dreamed of warmth. The kind that encompassed his entire body and made him feel safe and loved. A warmth that never burned. A warmth that thawed his heart from the cold and reminded it what it was to beat again – that reminded him _why_ it beat again. A feeling of security and comfort and home; the feeling that reminded him of every reason why he called it love.

A warmth that never burned.

He dreamed of lips. Ones that would pull into the brightest smiles he had ever seen. Lips that never lied. The same ones that kissed away the tears whenever life became overwhelming, and whispered sweet-nothings into his hair or against his ear as he was drifting off to sleep. Lips that worshipped every dip and curve of his body – his cheek, his forehead, his jaw, his collarbone – and so much more than he would ever be able to write down or even begin to name. Lips that fit against his own; that sent butterflies to his stomach and caused his body to buzz with nerves.

Lips that never lied.

He dreamed of hands. Ones that would intertwine with his own, or pull him by the wrist with a sense of excitement and adventure to lead him somewhere. Hands that were never cold. Hands that tried to rub warmth into his arms on chilly days, or press soothing circles onto his back when the stress was overwhelming. Hands that traced pictures and words and poems into his skin on late nights, or hands that would desperately pull him closer when the space between them was unbearable.

Hands that were never cold.

Hands that were never cold.

Hands that were never cold.

Hands that were—

Never cold.

Never cold.

Never—

–Cold.

He dreamed of blood.

He dreamed of red gushing from a bullet wound. He dreamed of eyes that lost their spark – that would never look into his own like he was the only thing that existed. He dreamed of warmth like a fire, the kind that ate away at skin and muscle and bone and his entire body if he stepped too close and let it devour him. He dreamed of lips that stilled; no longer spouting Shakespeare lines or poetry or any other number of exhilarating stories and ideas. He dreamed of lips that didn’t kiss him anymore, not because they didn’t want to but because they couldn’t. He dreamed of hands that slipped through his own, like the ghost of a soul who existed out of his reach and couldn’t touch reality. He dreamed of hands he could no longer hold.

He dreamed of hands that never _were_ cold, but had turned to ice because they were buried six feet under the ground.

So instead he dreamed of hands that were _always_ cold because they were dead, and lips that lied because they broke every promise that they ever spoke against his skin. He dreamed of warmth that burned to the touch and _oh god_ if it tried to encompass him the same way again he would surely die too from the intensity of its scalding fire. He dreamed of eyes that were invasive because they’d stolen every secret he ever guarded from the world. He dreamed of eyes that were invasive because they brought to light every insecurity and shred of self-loathing and every single thing he wanted to forget about himself along _with_ himself, and those eyes – those fucking eyes that ripped every single thing he hid from the world into the open and just left them there. Eyes that made him feel vulnerable in the worst way imaginable.

He dreamed of nails that dug into his skin. He dreamed of moon-shaped crescents left in his flesh from the aftermath of the pressure and the _pain_ of them digging so tightly into him. He dreamed of nails that pressed so hard that they drew blood and _fuck_ he dreamed of blood. He dreamed of blood. He dreamed of blood he dreamed of blood and he couldn’t tell whose blood it was anymore.

He dreamed of staring up at the sky from six feet under the soil. He dreamed of the Earth rotating. He dreamed of life moving forward and people living and changing and growing and _oh god he was never going to forget the pain and the blood and those hands and lips and eyes and everything that made him feel alive too_. He dreamed of lying there, unmoving and unchanging. A constant; stuck in the night of the performance and watching his dreams play out before his eyes of poetry and passion and acting and the kind of love that burned eternally. He dreamed of burning that could consume him, and every night he wished he could go back.

Because now, he dreamed of death, and it didn’t happen.

The suicide. The blood. It didn’t happen; it never did.

It never happened in the same way the warmth never burned.

_Lies._

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading and I hope you enjoyed the fic! Comments and kudos are always welcome <3


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